


Faith in You

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Cures, Burns, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, Hospitals, M/M, Mentioned eye trauma, Morbid, Recovery, Scars, Self-Acceptance, Tattoos, mild body horror, not as bad as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 05:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11890974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Immediately in the aftermath of a fiery encounter with a desperate Angel, Dean is left to deal with the loss of his eye and disfiguring scars across his body. What he finds in the aftermath, though, makes the pain worth it in the end.





	Faith in You

Holy oil is an acquired taste, really; somewhere between gasoline and potpourri with ozone mixed in, hitting every bitter note it possibly can. Not that Dean makes a habit of drinking the stuff, but he can’t help it when it’s thrown at him, splattering across his face and soaking through his shirt, dripping down half of his arm; the rest flies into the dirt, soaking the ground beneath Castiel’s shoes at his back. Another awful thing about holy oil—he can’t wash it out of his clothes.

Sam raises his gun over Dean’s shoulder while Castiel holds himself back, sword—an actual _sword_ —in hand and an even more terrifying scowl on his face. “What,” Dean says, spitting oil into the dirt, “is that supposed to do?”

The Angel—it’s always Angels lately, this one from a rogue band attempting to destroy humanity from the inside—reaches around to his back pocket and pulls a Zippo free, flipping open the lid.

Dean’s stomach drops into his shoes. Holy oil is flammable, yes, but Dean’s only seen it used on concrete and hardwood, but never on—“Dean,” Sam shouts, barely a second before the lighter smacks against his chest.

The flame sparks, and all Dean feels is the blaze.

-+-

It feels like it’s been an eternity by the time he chokes and gags himself awake, a swarm of doctors and nurses surrounding him: some work to pull his trach tube out, while the others struggle to hold him down until it’s free. Never a comfortable feeling, and the last time, practically ten years ago if he remembers correctly, he still felt it deep in his throat a week afterwards, an itch that never quite dissipated. Sometimes, if he thinks hard enough, he can still taste it.

Now, though, it burns; even with morphine and whatever other painkillers the doctors pump into him, his skin still sears, particularly around the left half of his body. Deep-seated and agonizing, it spreads through him, seizing every muscle and limb; no matter how many people touch him or how quiet they instruct each other, it overwhelms him, nauseates him even after they shut off the light.

In the dark, he can cry without being seen. All but one nurse leaves, and she only stays behind to check his IV and to change his bandages. _Bandages_ , where did he get those? “You’ll be alright, Mr. Winchester,” she says, running her fingers over half of his forehead while she concentrates; her fingers are soft, graceful as she works to calm him. For a while, her presence soothes the ache stretched across his skin; for that, he’s forever grateful. “Whatever you ran into got you good, but Dr. Silva took good care of you. She grafted what she could of your face, but you’ll still have some scarring.”

Scars— _fire_. There was a fire, but he can’t remember where, or how. Dean swallows, his throat dry; the nurse offers him water, and it takes him at least three tries to take the cup in hand. For some reason, he can’t see half of the room. He can barely see her black hair, he can barely see the compassion on her face.

He can’t see anything through tears. “What happened?” he asks, resting his head on his pillow. “What…”

“You don’t remember?” she asks, almost a whisper. Dean shakes his head. “Someone burned you. We did what we could, but we had to take your eye.” Dean can’t help but groan, fighting the urge to smother himself with the pillow. Despite his protests, she pets his undamaged cheek, nails scraping slightly against scruff. “We put you into a medically induced coma for a week to allow you to heal. You suffered second to third degree burns on your chest and arm, and we had to graft more on your shoulder. Your brother and your friend did the right thing, throwing dirt on you. It could’ve been worse.”

“I could’ve died,” Dean agrees; internally, he wishes it would’ve killed him.

“They’ve been coming to see you during visiting hours,” she says; her nametag reads Aliyah. “We’ve had to kick them out a few times. They must really love you.”

 _Love you_ ; Dean wishes it didn’t hurt like it does. “Have they—Have they seen me like this?” he asks, just as she opens the door, on her way to another patient and away from him for the night. Her absence leaves him cold and lonely. “Without the…”

“I haven’t changed your bandages with them in the room,” Aliyah says, the light from the hall illuminating her smile and the sadness in her eyes. “You’re a beautiful man, Mr. Winchester. I hope this doesn’t change how you see yourself when it’s over.”

As the door clicks behind her, Dean turns his head and sobs into the sheets; if he had his way, he would never see himself in the mirror again.

-+-

“I got them to let me keep your eye,” Sam says offhandedly the two afternoons later, puttering around Dean’s hospital room in an attempt to stretch his legs. “Figured we could use it if Cas finds a spell or something.”

“What, to put my eye back in my head?” Dean scoffs; pushing himself up, he stretches an arm above his head until his spine pops; the other, he can’t lift more than thirty degrees in the air without his shoulder pinching. Whatever they did to him, it better have worked. “You really think there’s a spell to replant organs?”

Sam holds his hands up and flops down onto the couch. “Look, I don’t know, alright? But Cas has been on the warpath since you were admitted. He stole a car and drove overnight to Lebanon.”

If the thought didn’t rip his heart apart, Dean would laugh. It pulls his face too much, anyway. “Did he…” Sighing, Dean reaches up to touch the bandages, the gauze covering a good portion of his face, from the middle of his forehead to just below his ear, right over his eye. The rest of the wounds, he can’t exactly see, not with his periphery completely shot. Another four days, and he can leave the hospital with a prescription and a box of gauze and hopefully the willpower to take care of himself. Another four days, and he’ll see Castiel again; he doesn’t know if he can stomach that. “Did Cas… How much did he see?”

After a long, agonizing second, Sam shrugs. “Kinda didn’t know how bad it was with the blood. He used all the towels in the trunk to try to clean you up but… You just kept screaming at him.” He pulls out his phone. “I think you scared him.”

Dean rubs his shoulder, idly tracing his fingers over the bandages. “Kinda scared myself.”

“I can call him, if you want,” Sam offers. Looking up would only tear open whatever’s still healing in his neck; Dean opts to stare at his lap instead. “I told him you were awake, but I don’t think he believed me. It’d be better for him to hear it from you.”

 _But I don’t want to_ , Dean thinks. _I don’t want him to hear me like this, to see me_. “I don’t…” He turns to Sam, pointedly ignoring Sam’s wince. _Better get used to it_. “He’s gonna blame himself. I don’t wanna put him through that.”

“Bullshit, man.” Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean can viscerally feel it in his soul. “You’re both gonna blame yourselves until your hair falls out. He wants to hear from you.” Reluctantly, Dean takes the cellphone—or rather, Sam shoves it into his hand. “Please. I’ll go see if I can snag lunch. Talk to him before he breaks something?”

As harsh as it is, Dean needs that right now. In a way, he’s always needed the push, his initiative lost frequently in bouts of pain and terror. The only thing that keeps him moving on most days is his brother and Castiel. Whenever he’s around, at least. For the last few weeks, Castiel has been living in one of the guest rooms and decorating it at his leisure; the last Dean knew, he was happy. How he is now, he’s too scared to find out.

It takes him at least ten minutes after Sam leaves to actually flip through the contact list, most of his time spent either staring at the background or out the window _. Do it for Cas_ , he tells himself, eye closed. _Just ask him if he’s okay._

Castiel doesn’t answer the first few calls. Each time Dean hits redial, the dial tone stops after the fourth ring; Dean shuts it off before the voicemail message starts, and tries again, and again. Somewhere around call seven—the numbers start to blur after a while—Castiel finally answers, but not in the way Dean expects. He yells directly into Dean’s ear, “I told you to stop calling me, Sam, if it’s not—”

“It’s me,” Dean croaks, and Castiel quiets. Briefly, he wonders if Castiel hung up or the spotty reception in Colorado finally died on them, until he hears a chair scraping against hardwood and Castiel’s deflating sigh. “I woke up.”

“Dean,” is all Castiel says for a long, long while; long enough for Dean to start counting his breaths, trying to find it in himself to match his rhythm, to steady the rattle in his chest. “I’m—I’m sorry. Sam’s been using your phone. His shattered, and he keeps asking me how I’m doing.”

“He’ll do that,” Dean mutters. Sam has always cared too much for his own good, no matter how nagging it is on someone’s nerves; Dean’s heard his fair share over the years. Holding the phone with his injured arm hurts too much, and switching only agitates the sudden the sudden twinge in his back; he waits until he raises the backrest of his bed before putting the phone on speaker, too exhausted to do much more than open his eyes. The morphine must be kicking in. “Why didn’t you stay?”

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately; distinctly, Dean can hear the rustle of pages and a mug being set on a table. Library, probably, or one of the bedrooms, if he’s bothered to leave his room in the last few days. “I panicked,” he whispers; Dean closes his eye. “You said you hated me in the car, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You know I don’t…” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, only afterwards wincing with the pull; still sensitive, even after a week. “I just had half my body torched. I was just spouting off shit.”

“I know,” Castiel sighs, the depth of it rattling through the phone. “But I thought, if I left, then I could research. I’ve resorted to calling Healers to see if there’s any knowledge on remedying burns.”

Fisting the sheets doesn’t stop his stomach from turning; neither does glaring at the phone perched on his thigh. “Rit Zien?”

“No,” Castiel says, much to Dean’s relief. “There are still a few Angels on my side that specialize in incurable diseases. One of my sisters told me of a spell.”

“Really?” With their history, Dean can’t help but be skeptical; it wouldn’t be the first Angel to give Castiel false information, but this is something minor, nothing to do with humanity as a whole. Just one person. Still, guilt fills him, just from Castiel having to ask. “What’re we talking, pills, yoga, baths in honey?”

“It’s a balm.” In the background, he can hear Castiel rustling, searching for something. “We have most of the ingredients, but I need to drive to Little Rock to pick up some of the bones.”

 _Bones_. Just what Dean wants on his skin, dusty dead people. “What’s it for, anyway?” Dean asks through a yawn, scooting further back into the bedding; a few more days, and he can sleep in his own bed. “Gonna put my eye back in my head?”

“It’ll dull the worst of the scars, but it won’t entirely erase them. It might take weeks, though. Months, if you’d want to put up with it for that long.”

“Don’t care how long,” Dean sighs. Looking out the window, he watches the clouds pass. “…I’m scared of what I’m gonna look like, Cas.” His eye stings with his admission. He’s had dreams about it, his naps turning into burning nightmares of blisters and blood; the last thing he wants to see is his disfigurement, even after they grafted him back together. “What if… I can’t leave the house like that. People’re gonna look at me like I’m diseased, or like I tried to kill myself and it didn’t work.”

“You know it won’t be that bad,” Castiel soothes.

An attempt to quell his insecurities, Dean knows, but it doesn’t help to erase the truth. If he still had his eye, he could pass it off as another scar to add to his collection; without it, he’s disfigured, a victim of some accident that families will talk about with disgust over the dinner table. No part of him wants to put up with their looks, with their condescension. “You should’ve stayed,” Dean weeps, hand over his eye, like the pressure will stop him from bawling. “I miss you.”

Castiel’s “I miss you too” reminds him of broken church bells; Dean bites his hand to keep him screaming. “I’ll be here when you come home. I’m sorry, I… I need to do this for you.”

“Cas,” Dean blurts, watery and every bit mortified. “Cas, don’t hang up.”

“I won’t,” Castiel says. “Do you want me to talk?”

Castiel can’t see him nod over the phone; Dean goes for answering instead. “Just until Sam gets back? That book you were reading last week.”

Dean can practically hear him smile through the phone. “I’ll go find it.”

-+-

The drive from Aurora to Lebanon takes a little less than six hours, all of which Dean spends asleep lengthwise across the back bench, hiding from the sunlight and passersby in and out of every little town and the one gas station Sam stops at as they enter Kansas. He can eat now without hurting himself, which is a plus, and he only sits up once they’re parked as far away from the McDonald’s drive thru as they can get. The eyepatch doesn’t stop a kid from looking in the window, though; thankfully, he doesn’t scream to his parents about the ugly man in the backseat shoveling a quarter pounder into his face. Small miracles, probably.

For a life spent on the road for days on end, hopping from motel to motel and back again, Dean has never been more grateful to have a home to come back to, one that doesn’t smell like mold and dust and God knows what else is in mattress. Shutting off the engine in an actual garage is a godsend; no birds to shit on his car, no rain to stain the paint, no spontaneous hailstorms. Just a roof and locking door and the faint scent of motor oil and rubber. Everything he’s ever wanted, but nothing he ever thought he’d have.

Castiel has torn the entire library apart, Dean finds upon exiting the garage; Sam audibly gasps at the sight of books on the floor and spread out over the table, and the ten mugs of stale coffee placed on every table and shelf, one even on the top of a bookcase. Pulled out chairs, two stepladders, notebooks upon notebooks full of Enochian scribble— _what has he been doing_?

“Cas?” Sam calls out with every hint of an accusation in his voice; just barely, Dean holds back a laugh. “What have you done?”

“I told you,” Castiel shouts from a room far off, maybe a storage closet or a bedroom. Who knows what he’s gotten into in the last four days. “I’ve been researching.”

“You destroyed the library,” Sam says, aghast; this time, Dean does laugh. “Can you at least come out here?”

It takes him a minute, but Castiel finally resurfaces from apparently walking through cobwebs, his hair coated in dust at the tips, pajamas rumpled and hanging off him; they really need to take him shopping so he can stop stealing their clothes. Instead of a greeting, though, Castiel stops in the doorway and just stares, no hint of apprehension or fear or even happiness on his face. The longer he stands there, the more Dean wants to curl into himself and hide in his room.

“I’m gonna order pizza,” Sam announces and pats Castiel’s shoulder on his way to the kitchen.

Dean can’t even stop him from leaving. All he’s left with in Sam’s wake is Castiel and Castiel’s wandering eyes, scanning his face and down to his neck, to where the burns peek through underneath his shirt sleeve. “Dean,” he breathes; Dean turns his head away. Despite his every instinct to run, he allows Castiel into his space, allows Castiel to touch him, to run his fingers over the raised edges over half of his face, down to his collar, just underneath the lip of his shirt. He reaches up to untie the eyepatch, letting the fabric fall away.

What it looks like, Dean doesn’t know. Doesn’t care to, either, no matter how gently Castiel thumbs over the curve of where his eye once was, now shallow and sewn shut. Too much damage, the nurses had said; the sheer amount of oil coating his skin erased all hope of keeping the socket. How Castiel can heal that, Dean would like to see him try. “You can say it,” Dean murmurs.

Castiel just shakes his head, palm fitting over the sensitive scars in a caress. His cheek burns in shame. “It’s not bad,” Castiel tells him, too sure of himself for Dean to believe. “You should be grateful for your surgeon.”

No matter how much he shakes his head, Castiel’s hold remains firm, keeping him steady. “I’m a freak,” Dean admits, bowing his head. “Just say it.”

“You’ve never been.” Castiel wipes away the tear that falls, collecting it on his thumb. “And you never will be.”

Within the very fabric of his soul, Dean wishes he could believe him.

-+-

For at least another day, Dean makes a pointed attempt to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. Sure, it makes brushing his teeth and navigating every room in the bunker a hassle—since when did they have that many mirrors, anyway?—but he manages. Sometimes, if he ignores his sudden lack of peripheral, he can imagine everything is normal. He can watch TV in the common room, he can shop in Smith Center and try his hand at cooking from Sam’s recipe book, and he can sleep restfully unless he rolls onto the wrong side.

That all stops the morning he forgets—truly forgets—and spots himself in the mirror after a shower, a towel around his waist and hair astray. Objectively, it doesn’t look half as bad as he figured—Castiel wasn’t lying about that, thankfully—but it’s still there, a permanent blot. Half of his face is only slightly lighter than the rest, but the edges are jagged and rigid from deeply pitted scars. His eye socket isn’t flushed with his face, but the depression is still there, resembling an unfinished, eyeless doll. Red and brown patches mar his chest and arm, some areas drastically differing; the graft over his shoulder closely resembles his natural skin tone, but not by much.

It’s worse than disfigurement; he’s a patchwork, fitted with a cadaver’s skin and an arm that doesn’t look like his own. The scars will fade in time, he knows; if he stays in the sun, even faster. But just seeing them dampers the ounce of joy he carried just the day before. The harder he looks, the more reality sets in.

His face feels foreign under his fingertips; if Dean had both eyes, he would cry.

Punching the mirror won’t solve his problems—but by God, it helps.

-+-

“I feel like I’m being sacrificed,” Dean grumbles later that evening, sitting cross-legged on Castiel’s bed.

Candles adorn every surface in Castiel’s room, some situated atop the dresser, more on a bookshelf and some on the writing desk. There’s a menorah sitting on top of the TV, all but one of the candles lit, most of the sticks melted halfway. “It’s how I keep track of what day it is,” Castiel told Dean over a month ago when he moved in, permanently this time. And permanent lodging apparently means hoarding an entire Yankee Candle in his bedroom. At least they’re all one scent and not potpourri.

“We could get your brother to help, if that’d make you feel less awkward,” Castiel says from the desk. Dean makes a face and ducks his head; the last thing Sam needs to see is Dean shirtless while Castiel rubs some Angelic balm all over his body.

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he watches Castiel grind a collection of herbs and bones and a poor white daisy in a mortar, until a thin white powder forms in the bowl. It must be minutes, it feels like, maybe an hour, but the rhythm is calming, the gentle scrape of stone against stone setting his nerves at ease. “I need your help for the last part,” Castiel says after a while, setting the pestle stop his desk.

From one of the drawers, Castiel pulls a smaller, apparently hand-forged Angel blade, the tang set in a white marble handle and polished to a near-brilliant shine. Beautiful as it is, Dean’s heart races. “Whoa, whoa.” He holds his hands up when Castiel offers the weapon handle-first. “If this involves cutting you open, I’m out.”

“It needs Grace,” Castiel huffs. “Only a drop. I’m not asking you to bleed me.”

Dean scowls. “One drop adds up, man. We keep doing this, you’re gonna be bone dry by the time we’re done.”

“Grace replenishes itself.” Part of him is surprised Castiel doesn’t just roll his eyes into the back of his head. Sitting, Castiel places the blade atop Dean’s knee and holds out a finger and the bowl. “Pricking me won’t make me fall.”

No, but quite honestly, Dean could stand to have to not see Castiel slice open a vein every time it’s necessary. Those times were with knives—this, apparently, is enough to kill him if someone used it the right way. “Did you make it?” Dean asks, reluctantly taking the blade in hand to admire the finish.

“I had time while you were gone,” Castiel admits. “I made one for you and your brother, as well.”

Dean snorts. “You got me a present, Cas?”

Instead of an eye roll, Castiel grunts. “You’re making me regret telling you.”

“Fine, fine.” Dean shakes his head.

With steady fingers, Dean takes Castiel’s hand in his own and swipes the blade across Castiel’s finger until he sees white; the moment the Grace hits powder, the mixture congeals and solidifies, and finishes taking form once Castiel whispers what sounds like an Enochian prayer into the bowl. What Castiel creates is white and tacky, but it feels like air under Dean’s fingertips. “You should sell this stuff,” Dean says, barely resisting the temptation to taste it; Castiel would probably smack him if he did.

“It’s meant to ease Angelic wounds,” Castiel says, “but it should work on humans just as well. Lie back.”

Dean does as told, easing himself back into the sheets and resting his head atop one of Castiel’s pillows. Not as soft as his own, but close enough. “You sure that’s gonna be enough?” he asks, eye closed; he spends his time concentrating on how Castiel moves, how the bed dips under his weight and how warm his fingers are when they glide over the scars. “Don’t look like much.”

“It doesn’t need to be a thick coat,” Castiel murmurs, stroking down his cheek. “It was used in battle around the time of the first Angelic war, but it proved tedious to concoct at a moment’s notice. It could absorb fast enough to get someone back on their feet.”

Makes sense; but it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t feel much other than Castiel’s hand and the occasional wisp of frigid air zipping across the scars. Maybe that’s it; maybe it’s the Grace binding it together and that it’s being administered by an Angel. Whatever he’s doing, it’s… intimate. _Nice_. “Better not be placebo effecting me,” Dean rumbles. He can’t help the sigh that escapes when Castiel strokes over his ear, over the scarred shell and down to his neck. “Is it…”

“It’s working,” Castiel assures; lips press against his forehead, and Dean can’t bring himself to care. “Better than I expected, as well.”

Dean hums. “Good.” He blinks once, looking up to see Castiel’s face and the satisfaction there, the faintest hint of red brightening his cheeks in the candlelight. “Can I nap?”

“Sleep,” Castiel coos. His palm smoothes over Dean’s collar. “I’ll be here.”

-+-

“You should get a tattoo,” Sam announces in the backyard while Dean is buried to his elbows in soil and Castiel is ripping ivy off of the bunker’s back facade. Sam’s idea to garden today, but he’s not helping; if anything, he’s supervising in a lawn chair while Dean does all the dirty work. _Isn’t this supposed to be the other way around_? Dean thinks _; shouldn’t I be bossing him around_?

If it weren’t the middle of summer with no chance of rain in sight, Dean would fight him. “You realize how much those things hurt?” Dean questions, earning a shrug from Sam. “What, you think it’s ugly too?”

“I’m not saying that.” Sam throws his head back, bare heels digging into the grass. “It’d be, y’know, a nice coverup. If Cas’ thing isn’t working, that’s always an option.”

“It’s working,” Dean mutters under his breath, reaching for a tomato plant and peeling off the plastic casing.

Two weeks in, and there definitely is a difference there, especially on his face, but it’s not anywhere near where he had hoped. His shoulder still looks like a misshapen quilted doll, but at least it’s not as prominent now. Three days ago, Castiel had referred to it as a bad sunburn. _If only_.

It’s better, though. As slow of a progression as it is, it’s healing, and Castiel spends every other night in either of their bedrooms massaging his skin until the knots recede and Dean falls asleep easier than he ever has in his entire life. Sam doesn’t need to know that, though; what happens behind bedroom doors stays there. Besides, if he had to explain it, he doubts he could even put it into words.

“It’s still an idea,” Sam suggests. “I found your sketchbook.”

Dean nearly chokes on his tongue. “Hey, that’s private—”

“Relax.” Sam offers an open palm, looking every bit as innocent as he claims. “If you’re asking if I showed Cas, I didn’t.”

“Well… Good.” Dean turns back to the plot, covering the plant’s roots in soil. Castiel would more or less interrogate him if he found the books under Dean’s bed, filled with sketches of monsters and landscapes and more than enough of Castiel in various poses. Nothing to be ashamed of, but still, his face heats with it; hopefully, he can blame it on the sun. “Don’t think I can draw that well, anyway.”

“Dude, have you seen your stuff?” Pushing off his knees, Sam stands, only to kneel at Dean’s side and take another tomato plant in hand. “I always figured it was dad’s sketches in the journal until I started noticing your signature.”

Right, that old thing. A DW in the bottom corner that looked more like a box than anything recognizable. Sam noticed, though. One way or another, Sam always notices. “There’s a difference between that and designing a tattoo,” Dean says.

“Is there, though?” Sam reaches over to hand off another plant. “You don’t have to, but I think you’d do a good job. Plus, I’ve been wanting one for a while, anyway.”

Dean snorts and shoves Sam’s shoulder, nearly toppling him. “Yeah, yeah, you’ll get your turn. How’s Cas doing?”

Together, they turn to find Castiel halfway up the side of the bunker with a pair of hedge clippers in hand, anchored by a cable attached to the roof. “He’s gonna hurt himself,” Sam comments, Dean following with, “I’m gonna get him down.”

“Do you even know how to get on the roof?”

Dean huffs. “I’ll find a way.”

-+-

None of them really discuss Dean’s eye in a jar until a month after the incident, when Dean finds it in a box crammed onto a bookshelf with about three others its size. Granted, with half of the stuff they find in the library or the storage rooms, finding a detached eye is the least shocking thing he could’ve come across. The cornea and retina have completely burnt off and almost all of the sclera is charred, unsalvageable.

So that’s what they meant by they couldn’t save it—the damn Angel nearly melted his eye out of his head.

“What do you think we should do with it?” Dean asks in the kitchen while Sam works the panini press, setting the jar in the middle of the table.

Sam gives him the most disgusted look he can. “Dude, organs out of the kitchen. We eat here.”

“And I’d like to have this back in my head again, but we can’t have it both ways.” Sitting, Dean rotates the jar to face him and helplessly stares at the floating eye. “You think Cas knows anything about it?”

“Go ask him.” Sam thumbs to the door. “And get that thing out of here. I’m already having nightmares about it.”

“Wimp,” Dean joshes.

He leaves anyway, wandering through the halls in search of Castiel, jar in hand. Not in any of the bedrooms, and not in the living room; out of all the weird places for him to hide in the bunker, Dean finds Castiel in the garage, half hanging out of the backseat of his Continental, the vacuum-end of the shop vac in hand. Okay, so vacuuming—he’s so bored he’s _vacuuming_.

“Hey,” Dean calls over the noise, leaning against the passenger door. Castiel doesn’t answer, at least not until Dean nudges his hip with his foot. “You got a minute?”

In one fluid motion, Castiel pulls himself from the backseat and shuts off the shop vac, afterwards pointing the nozzle at Dean; his eyes fall to the jar, and just the slightest hint of disgust creeps over his face. “You found it?”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean chuckles. He places it atop the Continental’s roof and folds his arms, hip propped against the door. “I was thinking—”

“You want it back?” Castiel asks before Dean can even finish his sentence.

He does. Not that he necessarily needs it—he can maneuver fine without it, albeit after forcing himself to focus—but he can’t hunt with one eye. A month inside a certifiable fallout shelter without sunlight and without any set task to do, and Dean is crawling in his skin waiting to leave. He wants to drive, wants to feel the sun on his face in another state, wants the lunch special at the shadiest diner he can find.

The scars, he can deal with; he just wants to see the world like he was meant to.

“You find anything when you were tearing apart the library?” Dean asks, toeing the hem of his pajamas pants with a toe. “Or is it just some Angel thing? Just pop it in?”

Castiel heaves a sigh before slamming the car door closed, nearly sending the jar onto the concrete; Dean catches it before it falls and hands it over. Holding it up to the fluorescent bulbs, he observes it with scrutiny, his brow furrowed. “I can heal it on my own, but only after I put it back. The fire should’ve burnt the rest of the holy oil off.”

“Great,” Dean sighs. “So I gotta sit there while you do… whatever?”

“It should only take a few seconds,” Castiel mentions. “Replacing it will be the challenge.”

Morbid as it may be, Dean can’t help but feel nervous, the anticipation too much to bear. “When do you wanna do it?” he asks, arms tight around his middle, all the comfort he can get for now.

“Go get your brother,” Castiel instructs; Dean can’t help but obey.

-+-

One of the weirdest rooms in the bunker that Dean has found to date is a physician’s office. Complete with an exam chair and a cabinet full of unused gloves, tongue depressors and other metal instrumentation he can’t name, it sits in the basement of the bunker, next to the pool and across from the gun range. What the Letters ever needed it for, Dean has no clue; there must’ve been a doctor in Lebanon in the forties, or even a hospital or a clinic in one of the surrounding towns. Maybe for spells gone wrong; maybe medical experimentation.

Whatever the reason, Dean tries to ignore it and concentrate on breathing. Around him, Sam stands next to the sink while Castiel unscrews the jar’s lid, reaching in with a gloved hand to pull out what remains of Dean’s eye. Thankfully, all of the nerves are still attached, which should make things easier considering—but the sight of it out of the jar makes it even more surreal. That was once his. He was born with that eye, and he hasn’t seen it in a month, and now Castiel is holding it all while looking like a mad scientist.

“I change my mind,” Dean blurts, covering his face. “I’ll just—”

“You’re panicking,” Castiel says; not in the least bit scolding, but Dean still feels ashamed. He’s acting like a child when this is what he wanted in the first place. “You can keep your eye closed if it’d make it easier.”

“I just want it over with,” he mumbles. The sooner Castiel can finish this, the sooner Dean can practice in the gun range without accidentally damaging the walls.

With bare fingers, Castiel brushes Dean’s hands away, guiding them down to his sides. Sam joins them and palm Dean’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “I want you to breathe as deep as you can,” Castiel instructs. “Hold it until I tell you to let go.”

 _This is gonna go wrong_ , Dean thinks near-hysterically. _It’s gonna backfire and I’m gonna be blind and Sammy’s gonna have to be my guide dog for the rest of my life_. “Dean,” Sam says; idly, he thumbs down Dean’s shoulder, just enough touch to keep him grounded. “You can panic later, okay? Cas knows what he’s doing.”

“You’re safe.” Castiel runs his hand over the curve of Dean’s forehead, letting it rest there. Warm, safe—Castiel won’t let this fail. “Breathe.”

Dean sucks in a breath through his mouth, and waits.

-+-

He wakes somewhere around mid-afternoon, or so says the digital clock on the bedside table. As his vision clears, the numbers come into focus, until he can read 4:13 with both eyes. _Both eyes_ —for a split second, everything is clear, everything is focused and horribly disorienting, and Dean has to take a second to steady himself without toppling back into the mattress.

He can see—he can see again, and blink and apparently sob his heart out. Which is how Castiel finds him five minutes later, Dean with his head in his hands and Castiel with a wet washcloth in his. “Are you alright?” Castiel asks with just the barest hint of urgency, knees sinking into the mattress. He cups Dean’s cheeks despite the wetness there, despite how hot Dean’s face burns. “Dean—”

“I’m fine,” Dean croaks, halfway to ecstatic; if he could only stop crying. It’s just an eye. But it’s the eye he thought he’d never have again, the one he’d taken for granted until he lost it. “I’m fine, just…” Reaching out with shaking hands, he touches Castiel’s face, runs his fingers over the softness of his cheek, the curve of his jaw, the absurdly straight line of his nose. Everything he couldn’t focus on for a month, all in his grasp once again. “I wanna look at you.”

“I’m here.” Castiel offers a smile and covers Dean’s hands with his own, threading their fingers together. Such a simple thing, but Dean only cries harder, practically bawling into Castiel’s shirt when he lurches forward. “I’m here,” Castiel assures him, lips pressed into his hair. “I’ve got you.”

-+-

The scars don’t entirely fade, not in the way Dean wanted. By the six month mark, they’re darker, but he can still see the difference between grafting and his own skin, and he can still see the paler portion of his face in the mirror, but only if he turns his head just right. Still, the scars remain, rigid in some areas and depressed in others.

His shoulder bore the worst of it—and the shoulder is the first design Dean sketches in his notebook. Over the days, he trashes more pages than he keeps, only after the eraser wore holes into the paper and threatened to rip it in half. Some nights, Castiel watches him from the other side of the bed, ever observant but never quite asking what he’s doing. Sam gives him creative guidance and offers ideas. They’re all the support he needs, all the inspiration he’s ever wanted.

What he comes up with astounds even him, once it’s done. It came to him in a dream while he was in the hospital, a vision of a gas station on the edge of nowhere in Kansas, surrounded by wheat fields and multicolored, spiraling lights in the turbulent, black sky. Rain falls; a funnel threatens to drop. Straight out of one of his worst nightmares, but it’s beautiful, and encompasses enough skin to cover the worst of the burn. His neck, maybe he can cover later down the road, or never if Castiel’s treatment continues like it has been.

Dean waits, though; as much as he wants to head into Lawrence or Hastings, he can’t afford it, and most of the shops he wants to visit only take cash. Some nights, he hits up the bar in Smith Center and hustles out-of-their-way college students. Some mornings, he stocks aisles at the grocery store in Lebanon. Once, he sits on the corner with a sign and makes a whopping seven bucks.

It takes two months to come up with the cash, or at least what he hopes is enough. It turns out, after Castiel researches for two seconds, that there are shops in Salina, and Dean sets up an appointment for that Friday with an artist that illustrates in a style similar to his, but with brighter colors and more depth than Dean could ever hope to have.

Together, he and Castiel visit Salina twice a month for the rest of autumn, and Castiel holds his hand the entire time. When the pain becomes unbearable, Castiel soothes it with a swipe of his finger, and a chill spreads through Dean’s body, easing the ache, at least for a while. Cheating, yes, but Dean is grateful for it all the same.

Without Castiel there, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, couldn’t bother to keep living if it meant having to go it on his own.

Castiel kisses him in a diner parking lot just as the last leaves are beginning to fall, and his lips feel like Dean had always imagined: soft, plush and perfectly fitted to his own. He tastes like marshmallows and hot chocolate, and the pecan pie the waitress snuck them before her shift ended. Hands caressing Castiel’s neck, Dean drinks him in and swallows each little breath, every sigh.

A thumb swipes just beneath Dean’s left eye, gathering the stray tear that falls; he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “This is so cheesy,” Dean says, burying his face in Castiel’s throat. “Like I’m in a crappy Hallmark movie.”

“You enjoy those, though,” Castiel chuckles; his arms encircle Dean’s waist and just rest there, sometimes his hands pressing to the small of his back.

Close. Intimate. Dean can’t get enough. “I do.” Arms around Castiel’s neck, he smiles, kisses the tip of his nose. “There anything I can do to thank you?”

“Love me?” Castiel asks.

Like Dean could do anything else. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> I will pay someone to force me to edit. I'm 15k into another AU and have about 5K left, and I'm avoiding responsibilities. But at least I'm productive? Someone love me? 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it though! I have no idea where it came from but I love it. I call this, "Dean just really wants a hug."
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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